The South African
Military History SocietyDie Suid-Afrikaanse Krygshistoriese Vereniging

Military History Journal Vol 2 No 4 - December 1972

OPERATION IPUMBU

by BRIGADIER J. B. KRIEGLER, CBE

To most people, under the age of 50 and outside the
South African Permanent Force, the names Ovamboland,
Ipumbu, Figamine and “Cocky” Hahn mean nothing at
all. To those, however, who took part in a very minor
episode in the history of the UDF, and especially to those
who had never before heard a shot fired in anger, they are
unforgettable names.

Ovamboland, a native reserve lying between South West
Africa and the Kunene River, was “governed” by Chief
Ipumbu who, in turn, was kept on or near the rails by
Major C. L. H. (“Cocky”) Hahn, the Native Commissioner
for the area. “Cocky”, a Rugby Springbok, and an outstanding
figure in any company, did not appreciate Ipumbu’s
infatuation for a young native girl who was closely related to
him. To escape his unwelcome attentions, she fled to the
mission enclave from which Ipumbu tried to abduct her.
He was fined 10 head of cattle by Hahn, refused to pay and
was then fined another 90 head for contempt of court. Once
again he defaulted.

At this stage, the South West African Administration
appealed to the Union for assistance in bringing Ipumbu to
his senses. Lieut-Col. Sir Pierre van Ryneveld was dispatched
with five Wapiti aircraft to Ondangua, Headquarters of
Chief Native Commissioner Hahn, to attempt by “gentle
persuasion”, in the form of a show of force, to teach Ipumbu
that crime did not pay.

After some days of parleying, it was decided that a show
of force would not be sufficient to bring the Chief to heel,
and a request was made to the Union for "ground troops"
in the form of the entire armoured forces of the UDF! To
the uninitiated this might seem grossly excessive. However,
if one realised that the “entire armoured force” consisted of
two obsolete, solid-tyred Crossley armoured cars, then the
odds were certainly in Ipumbu’s favour.

At this stage, Lieut Kriegler became very interested in
the proceedings and highly flattered, seeing that Col. van
Ryneveld’s signal requested “Kriegler and two armoured
cars” to come to the rescue.

Great excitement prevailed over the selection of the crews,
mostly from members of the Small Arms Branch of the
South African Military College. This had to be done with
an eye to the best man for the job, and without too much
favour or affection. There followed the testing of Vickers
and Lewis guns, rifles, revolvers, Verey lights; the packing
of the very limited spares available for the Crossleys; the
loading of the cars on railway trucks; the farewells, etc.

WO-II “Jockey” Botha and his good wife supplied the first
of a series of amusing episodes. Botha, on the eve of his
departure to the crusades, thought he was not getting
sufficient attention and sympathy from his family and
lodged his complaint with Mrs Botha who put him right
in his place by saying, “And do you think you require
sympathy from me? One of these days you’ll be sitting
pretty in heaven and I’ll be left to bring up your children
- weg is jy!”[away with you!]

The ground party, consisting of Lieut Kriegler, WO
Botha, Sgts Terblanche, Schoeman, Ferreira and Glover,
set out by train from Pretoria early in July, 1932 and, in
due course, arrived in Windhoek. Here it had to be decided
whether we should travel by road to Ondangua or whether we
should travel the first part of the journey by train to Usakos
where the narrow gauge railway began, terminating at
Outjo. As nobody could tell us whether the narrow gauge
truck would accommodate the armoured cars, I eventually
decided that we should travel all the way under our own
power. The Administration provided us with a one-ton
Continental and a 5-ton Thorneycroft to convey P.O.L.
(petrol, oils and lubricants.—Ed.) etc.

People, whom we had met on the train and on railway
stations, since leaving Pretoria, had advised us against
attempting to drive armoured cars over the Etosha pan.
Many offered to give us any odds we cared to mention that
we would never make it! If any spur were required to make]
us more keen than we already were, this challenge was just
it. We left Windhoek about an hour before dusk and got,
stuck in the first dry riverbed we encountered, about six
miles north. We extricated ourselves but, at Okahandja, one
of the Crossleys developed waterpump trouble and it took
us more than half the night to repair the fault. Although the
day had been hot, the night turned bitterly cold and there
were two-foot icicles hanging down from our waterbags. We
kept a fire burning to warm our hands which became numb
in no time while we were working on the car.

When Lieut. (now Brig.) J.B. Kriegler, C.B.E.
made his "dash" as described in the accompanying article,
the vehicle had disc wheels and solid tyres

We snatched a few hours’ rest after the car had been
repaired and, at first light, we set out on our journey again.
When we left Pretoria on Monday, I knew that Col. van
Ryneveld had prepared his plans for the following Monday.
This meant that we had six days in which to reach our
destination, and would have to travel hard, by day and
by night.

The going was rough over most indifferent tracks on
solid-tyred, overweight and underpowered cars but, by dint
of hard driving without stops, we made fair progress.

At Outjo, which we reached at dead of night, we had a
wonderful reception from half the inhabitants of the village
and were offered our first sitdown meal for days. After half
an hour’s rest, we continued on our way to Otjiwarongo.

Sgt Glover, our Sergeant mechanic, (what a hero!) and I,
each drove an armoured car, while the others travelled in
the cars or on the trucks. As luck would have it, and I do
mean luck, one of the armoured cars broke down and had
to be abandoned. We realised that we would never get both
cars to their destination. A German butcher, who professed
to know the country over which we were to travel as well
as he knew the palm of his hand, offered Sgt Schoeman his
wife, if we managed to take the armoured car across the
Etosha pan. On our return after the “war”, Schoeman
sought in vain for his prize. The butcher and his wife had
fled into the “bundu” to escape the forfeit.

At Okaukuejo, where the SAAF party had established
a landing ground and supply depot, we were met and feted
by Lieut H. B. Klopper, destined to become Commandant-General
in later years. “Kloppie” made us very welcome and,
as far as I can remember, shared his only crust with us.

We had now reached the Etosha pan where our troubles
really started. Not only were the armoured car tracks
different from those of our vehicles, but the front wheels
differed from the rear double wheels. Unless one steered
without a rudder, the very narrow tyres of the front wheels
veered off-track and bit into the sand. If the drift were not
speedily corrected, the engine stalled. I must have changed
gears half-a-million times! We eventually reached the stage
where the car would no longer move under its own power
and had to be hitched on to the Thorneycroft. With the
Thorneycroft in auxiliary low, the Crossley in low gear and
both engines going full blast, we progressed at about 1.5
miles per hour. Our desert train moved at this speed for
hour after hour, and we stopped only to replenish the
radiators and petrol tanks.

It was now Saturday. The battle was due to commence
on Monday morning and we were still many miles deep in
the Etosha pan.

That night we struck a patch of soft sand into which the
armoured car sank up to the wheelhubs, and no amount of
straining on the part of the Thorneycroft and the Crossley
would budge it. On Sunday morning at first light, we heard
the droning of an aircraft and, to our surprise, beheld Capt.
C. J. (“Boetie”) Venter (later Major-General C. J. Venter,
CB, MC, DGAF and Assistant General Manager Airways of the
SAR & H) who had come to look for us. Seeing that we were
completely bogged, he dropped a note from his Wapiti
regarding our position, and told us that he would fly past
again. If we thought that we would be unable to extricate
ourselves, we should stand still. However, if there seemed a
hope that we could proceed on our way in a reasonable
time, we were to wave our arms and he would transfer our
message to Lieut-Col. van Ryneveld at Ondangua. I put
the question to the crews and there was not a man who
thought we could make it. I could not tolerate the thought
of failing my Commanding Officer on my first venture "on
active service" and told my men so in no uncertain terms,
and commanded them to wave their arms until they just
about dropped off! “Boetie” Venter flew past again and
we waved him a victory message.

Having committed ourselves to “make it”, we set to and
dug ourselves out, and in no time were on our way again.

At about 1 p.m., we saw streaks of dust approaching from
our front and two passenger cars pulled up about 500 yards
ahead of us. Col. van Ryneveld emerged from one of them.
I got out of the armoured car and walked in his direction,
at about twice the pace the “train” was making. Col. van
Ryneveld, seeing an apparition approaching, looked right
through it and waited for the Commander to report to him.
I halted smartly and said, “Middag Kolonel”, whereupon
the Colonel said, “My magtig Kriegler, is dit jy?“[Good Lord, Kriegler, is that you?] I had
neither shaved nor washed for five days and the sand,
which had penetrated everything we possessed, made me
look more like a Strandloper Hottentot than a lieutenant in
the SAPF. Col. van Ryneveld took me in his car to Ondangua,
where I quickly shaved (tackle borrowed from 2nd
Lieut H. Celliers, later Brigadier H. Celliers, one time
Military Adviser to the High Commissioner in the U.K.)
and bathed, with Sir Pierre sitting almost on the edge of
the bath, giving me the gen on the “war”. As soon as I was
ready, Col. van Ryneveld flew me over Ipumbu’s kraal,
showing me the lie of the land and more or less reconnoitring
the route that I would follow in the morning. Back at
Ondangua, our battle wagon was being given a thorough
check by a bunch of air mechanics and Sergt Glover, while
our machine-guns were receiving a beauty treatment from
the crew.

The Headquarters had been set up in the house of
“Cocky” and Mrs Hahn, the latter having the task of feeding
a small host of hungry officers who had just been reinforced
by one, surely the hungriest serving man in Africa
south of the Sahara!

We discussed tactics and drew up a schedule of signals
which we would spell out using the Popham Panel system.

I should explain here our systems of intercommunication:
(a) Popham Panel consisted of a series of white canvas
strips, put out on the ground by the ground troops on
a pre-arranged Code system, for the pilot and observer.
(b) Message dropping by the aircraft.
(c) Message picking up by the aircraft. This crude, but
very effective, direct communication requires a short
explanation. The ground crew affix a message in a
small canvas wrapping to a piece of string about 25
feet long, and two members stand with this string
lightly tied to two poles six to eight feet long. The
aircraft either has a hook which can be let down or
otherwise a bag of shot tied to a piece of string and,
as the aeroplane approaches, the observer lets down
the string or hook and endeavours to let the weight
hook onto the string and message held up by the
ground crew. If the pilot’s and observer’s aims are
accurate, the string is jerked free from the two poles
held by the ground crew and is pulled up into the
cockpit.
(d) Wireless telephony between aircraft (this hardly ever
worked!).

After dinner, I decided to drive off in the armoured car to
cover a good part of the 17 miles or so which separated us
from Ipumbu’s Kraal, the scene of our “party” next morning.
It had been decided that the four aircraft would drop
bombs on the kraal at 0900 hours and that the armoured
car would then rush in and set fire to the kraal. During the
previous week, pamphlets had been dropped on the kraal
and vicinity, warning the Ovambos that the kraal would be
bombed and that it should be evacuated. It was stressed
that the quarrel was not with the Ovambo nation, but only
with Ipumbu, the Chief.

At 0855 hours, the armoured car arrived at the rendezvous,
an enormous ant-heap, 500 yards from the kraal,
punctually to the minute after days and nights of non-stop
endeavour. It was indeed a proud moment for us all.

It had been explained to us by the O.C. that I was to
command the military side of the show, while “Cocky” Hahn,
who travelled with us, was in charge of the political side and
would do all the indaba-ing necessary.

At 0855 hours, the aircraft went into formation, had a
run over the target, turned and, on the second run, Harry
Celliers, who was the observer and bomb-aimer in the O.C.’s
aircraft, dropped a sighter. The next run was the “real
McCoy” and the bombs rained down. As they detonated,
the whole kraal and vicinity were covered in a pall of dust
and sand.

Following instructions to rush in 15 seconds after the
last bomb had exploded, I drove the car to within about 20
yards of the kraal where I stopped, fearful of getting bogged
too near the blaze which we were to create within seconds
(or were we?). At this stage, the cupola of the car was open,
having been opened and closed, ad nauseam, by S/M Botha,
both to test the mechanism and to have something to do in
the calm which preceded the storm. I was getting ready to
emerge with a tin of petrol to pour over the nearest hut, in
order to start the conflagration, when one or two bees made
their way into the car through the open cupola and immediately
started being nasty by stinging one of us. Being dead
scared of bees, I shouted to S/M Botha to close up the car,
but he could not budge the dome. I jerked his clumsy hands
away from the levers, but failed in my turn. “Cocky” Hahn
now came to the rescue, but with as little success in shutting
out the bees which by this time were pouring into the vehicle
in a steady stream. Panic-stricken, and quite forgetting about
the “war” which might be raging outside our devil’s cauldron,
I thought only of getting rid of the bees. Remembering
the Verey lights we were carrying, I decided to fire off some
to burn out the bees. I grabbed the pistol, loaded it with
the first Verey cartridge I could lay hands on and shot off
three or four rounds. Imagine my horror when I saw that
they were red. The effects were threefold; the bees were
driven out, we were all nearly asphyxiated and Col. van
Ryneveld almost jumped out of his skin and his aircraft
because I had given the distress signal.

When the bees had been disposed of, I opened the door
of the car and proceeded for about six yards with my tin of
petrol to burn down the kraal, when I was again attacked
by a small swarm of bees. I threw away everything, made a
dash for the shelter of the car and fired off Verey lights (yes,
red again) to get rid of them, because the closing mechanism
of the cupola was still jammed. After another bombardment
of three or four Verey lights, the bees beat a retreat and I
was ready to set out again.

In the meantime the aircraft, which were flying at only
about 300-400 feet above, had a grandstand view of the
strange happenings on the ground. There was every indication
of severe distress amongst the armoured car crew. The
aircraft dived and poured .303 bullets into the kraal from
the front guns. When the VMG belts were empty, the aircraft
circled and allowed the observers to fire their Lewis
guns into the target area. The leader now gave instructions
to the aircraft to return to base in order to fill up with
bombs and ammunition. Col. van Ryneveld was meanwhile
flying circles round the kraal to see what was happening.

The bees having been defeated, I again proceeded
towards the kraal where I saturated a hut with petrol and set
it alight.

We were now ready to communicate with Sir Pierre. We
consulted our schedule of code signals, saw that “M” stood
for message and formed this signal on the ground with our
Popham Panels.

Col. van Ryneveld consulted his duplicate list, and seeing
that “M” stood for medical, he promptly dived low and
dropped his first-aid kit. Quite baffled, we consulted our
list again and found that we had included two “Ms” which
meant “Medical” and “Message”. We removed our first
“M” and substituted for it the same “M” and Col. van
Ryneveld, immediately realising what the trouble was,
consulted his list again and concluded that we had a message
for him. The message was presented on the two tall sticks
and picked up by Harry Celliers. We had informed Sir
Pierre that there was no enemy in sight, that the kraal had
been set alight (which he could very well see for himself) and
that we would cover his landing on a convenient dry pan
nearby.

The aircraft landed. When the O.C. had alighted, the
first question he asked was why we had sent up the distress
signal. If he had looked at us closely enough, he might very
well have guessed, because some faces were twice their
normal size as a result of bee stings (I personally had 20 odd
stings, but my face did not swell). We told him what had
happened and he wanted to know why we had fired red
Verey lights. We informed him that, in our moment of deep
distress, we did not have time to select our colours. As his
reaction did not indicate that he found our explanation
entirely satisfactory, we concluded that he had never been
in a similar situation. However, after an hour or so, the O.C.
saw the light and forgave us for the fright we had given
him.

It was now decided that we should camp on the landing
pan (called “Knopkieriepan”, because of its shape), explore
the kraal and its environs, and set up a hunt for Ipumbu
who had left his kraal and was A.W.O.L. (absent without
leave.—Ed.). We discovered in the kraal a beautiful
mahogany beehive with chunks of shrapnel in it, so it was obvious
why the bees had attacked us!

“Cocky” Hahn returned with Col. van Ryneveld to base
and 2/Lieut. S. A. (Steve) Melville (later General, SSA,
OBE, Commandant General of the UDF) remained with
us. The ground and air search for Ipumbu went on until,
eventually, he was located, captured and brought to
“Knopkieriepan” whence he had flown to Ondangua. Poor
old Ipumbu was like a pricked bubble. The chap, who was
reputed to have had pregnant women disembowelled to
satisfy his curiosity, and to have had a man buried alive in
an anthill because Ipumbu’s right hand had been blown
off by a detonator, brought by the man from the copper
mines and presented to the Chief, now looked as though he
could not hurt a fly. He had defied the court, but he was
very humble and frightened when he was told that he was
to be flown in an aircraft. Ipumbu was dressed in a kind of
tunic with a short skirt, “tackies” and a felt hat with an
ostrich feather, and had a rag tied over his damaged hand.
Figamine, the Chief’s son, was present, wearing riding
breeches and leggings which Ipumbu commandeered to
begin his flight into exile.

A big indaba was now ordered and 500 to 600 Ovambos
gathered on the pan to be addressed by Col. van Ryneveld.
A word here about Boy, the interpreter. This Ovambo
applied for work with Commissioner Hahn and, on being
asked what work he could do, he replied that he was a
watchmaker, a mechanic and an interpreter. “What languages
do you speak?” “German.” “Where did you learn
German?” “In Berlin”. “What else?” “Portuguese”.
“Where did you learn Portuguese?” “In Lisbon.” It tran-
spired that he also spoke English which he had learnt in
London and Italian which he had learnt in Rome. Boy had
attached himself to a young Irish doctor who was a bit of a
roamer and he had taken Boy on his journeys to the countries
where he had learnt the languages.

With Boy as interpreter, Col. van Ryneveld told the
gathering that the kind of nonsense Ipumbu had tried on
did not pay. The white man was a kind master and would
protect and care for the native, but the latter had to live
within the law and not defy it. “We sent five big birds to
lay eggs in Ipumbu’s kraal because he did not listen to his
father, the Commissioner, but we can send so many birds
that the sky will be darkened by them but this will never
be necessary, we know.”

After some stunt flying by Lieut Piet Nel (later Lieut-Col.
P. W. A. Nel, General Smuts’s pilot, and S.A. Airways
senior pilot) who had never stunted a Wapiti before (as a
matter of fact, nobody had), and demonstrations of front
and rear gunning, the palaver was over. The Ovambos, we
hoped, had been duly impressed.

A second party had in the meantime stacked the
confiscated rifles, both serviceable and unserviceable, in the
camp, to await transportation to Ondangua. Very little
remains to be told, except, of course, about the refreshing
swim we had in the Kunene river and the second scare Capt.
Willie Wilmot (later Maj.-Gen. H. G. Wilmot, CBE, DGAF
and O.C. Cape Command) and I gave Col. van Ryneveld
when, waiting until he was in deep water, we shouted
“krokodil!“ On the return journey from Outjo to Windhoek,
we were provided with the best 1st class accommodation
and dining service on the South African Railways. As the
story of our return to Roberts’ Heights as conquering heroes
will take too long to tell, I shall leave it for another occasion.

Suffice it to say that in six weeks we had mobilised,
trained, entrained, detrained, marched, fought a war,
conquered, captured the enemy, confiscated his arms,
banished him, re-educated him, returned home and been
forgotten by everybody, except the wives who had to listen
with rapt attention to the hardships we had endured!

I attended a Staff Duties course in Camberley, England,
in 1936-37, and one morning, while sipping a sherry in the
anteroom between lectures, I heard the following conversation,
immediately behind me, between a visiting officer and
one of my class-mates. Visiting officer, “I heard the most
extraordinary story yesterday. My friend, who has it on the
very best authority, told me that the natives of Ovamboland,
a territory between old German South West Africa and
Angola, train bees to attack their enemies. The Union of
South Africa sent a force into the country in 1932 and,
when they arrived at the kraal, they were set upon by bees”.
“You don’t say!“ said my colleague. “Yes, honestly”,
replied the visiting officer. “You’re telling me!” interjected
J.B.K.